


Twists Of Fate

by BeautifulFiction



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Bittersweet, M/M, ReShirement, reclaiming Moria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24369913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: After many years of happy retirement in the Shire, Bilbo and Thorin receive three unexpected visitors with a quest of their own.Thorin sighed, knowing that he could not talk them out of it. For the first time, he understood the dwarven council's frustrations when they had refused to support his quest for Erebor. He had always thought them indifferent and callous, but now he suspected they had instead struggled with the same fear that had taken root in his belly. Not only for the dwarves who marched so boldly – blindly – into a beast's domain, but of what might happen should whatever lay in Moria break free.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 23
Kudos: 103





	Twists Of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> For Mim 💖

Thorin Oakenshield leaned back on the bench in the garden of Bag End, the warmth of the sun bathing his face. Fat, happy bees buzzed among the flowers, and a gentle wind curled the smoke from his pipe into joyful, languorous shapes. Birdsong piped in the hedgerows, and the distant chatter of faunts haunted the edge of his hearing. 

The first time he had set foot in the Shire, he had sneered at their blissful, pastoral life. Every hobbit he saw seemed proof that this land was kind and soft, never suffering an ounce of strife or rousing itself to a passion over anything. The second time...

'What are you smiling about?' Bilbo asked, settling at his side and brushing soil from his hands. He'd been elbow deep in the garden again, his sleeves rolled up over strong, plump forearms and a good, honest sweat making him glow. Silver touched his temples and threaded through his hair: a mere hint of the years that gathered around him.

'I was remembering our somewhat notorious return to Bag End.'

Bilbo huffed a laugh, mischief sparkling in his eyes. He had not been nearly so delighted when they had discovered scavenging neighbours and triumphant relatives selling off his house and its contents. Now, years later, they both looked back upon that day with quiet triumph. They had, after all, made quite an impression. 

The quest, the battle and all that came since had honed Bilbo's confidence into a weapon he wielded with skill. He'd eviscerated them all with his words, leaving many stammering their apologies and bringing one particular harridan – apparently called Lobelia Sackville-Baggins – to furious tears. 

Those few neighbours who refused to relinquish their new purchases soon found themselves in Thorin's sights, pinned by his gaze. He said not a word. Uttered not a threat. He did not have to, not with Orcrist hanging from his hip and his shoulders firm. He may wear neither a mantle nor a crown, but every hobbit for miles around knew within the week that dwarven royalty had accompanied Bilbo Baggins home and, it seemed, planned to stay. 

Well, they were not wrong there.

He had fought hard for Erebor, against dragon and orc, man and madness. He had spent himself in the Battle of the Five Armies, spilling his blood upon the icy ground and knowing that his life would end there. Only Bilbo's quick thinking, a hasty alliance with the elves and Oin’s perseverance had saved the line of Durin in the days that followed. 

Yet even then, lying in a healing tent, he knew the throne was not his to take. He had discarded that right when he had lost himself to the siren call of the Arkenstone. More than anything, Thorin feared becoming like his grandfather: a corrupt ruler hoarding his riches, blind to the needs of the people who made his lands their home. Thrór had been a good dwarf, once, but that did not change what he had become. That potential lay within Thorin, too. The appearance of the gold sickness was proof enough of that.

No, the Lonely Mountain needed a clean slate. It needed youth and vigour, not age and regret. He had plenty of time to think about it as he lay healing, his body mending from wounds that should have, by all rights, ushered him into Mahal's halls. 

The only person surprised by his surrender of the throne was Fili himself. The others had read it days or weeks before, had seen his intentions in smiles that curved his lips and the soft, subtle joy that lit his face. He had never viewed his birth-right as a prison, but in that moment, he found true freedom. Freedom to come here, with Bilbo, and to live out the rest of his years in blissful peace.

He could see, now, why Bilbo had been reluctant to leave it and eager to return. The Shire may be slow and quiet, but it soothed the soul in ways Thorin could never have imagined. It was not his kingdom, but it was his home.

'Here.' Bilbo nudged him, handing him a brimming cup. He had not noticed his husband depart to gather the teapot, but he hummed his appreciation all the same. He grasped Bilbo's wrist, heedless of the faint patina of mud, and brushed a thankful kiss across his knuckles.

Bilbo laughed, delighted, and settled once more at Thorin's side, stretching his feet out and humming contentedly as he reached for a slice of cake. 'Do you regret it? Coming here with me?'

'No.' Thorin's instant answer had Bilbo lifting an eyebrow. 'Not for a moment.’ He wrapped Bilbo's hand in his. 'The Shire has been good for me.'

'Very good,' Bilbo agreed, patting Thorin's belly appreciatively. It would never be as round as a hobbit's, which was perhaps a blessing, but Thorin could not deny there was more meat on his bones than there had ever been before. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a version of himself he'd never thought possible: content and satisfied, loved and cherished. It was a life he would fight to keep, not because it was his duty, but because he desired it: the quiet, sunny days in Bilbo's heart.

'Are you expecting someone?' Bilbo asked, his head cocked as he strained to pick out some unknown sound from among birdsong and wind-rush. 

'No.' Thorin drained his cup of tea and got to his feet, ambling towards the little gate that separated Bag End's generous garden from the serpentine path of the lane. 'What do you hear?'

Bilbo wandered over to his side, shaking his head in puzzlement. 'I thought... I don't know, I thought for a moment that...'

'I told you, it's this way!'

'Aye, laddie, I heard you the first time.'

'Well at least _one_ of you did.'

'What?'

Thorin shared a quick, disbelieving look with Bilbo, whose mouth hung agape in mute confirmation. Thorin was not hearing things. He had not been so lost in his memories that they had begun to speak to him from the past. It may have been many a year since he had heard the voices now drifting through the warm Shire air, but that did not mean he could not put names and faces to them.

Tearing open the gate he stepped out into the lane, his baffled frown blooming into a grin as he watched three dwarves amble around the corner, bickering among themselves. Two were much as they had ever been. Oin's mane of steel grey and silver had gone all to white, but those brown eyes were bright and lively. Balin's snowy beard had grown even longer, and carried more braids than before, but his beady gaze sparkled with joy as he flung his arms wide, crowing in delight.

The embrace engulfed him, banding Thorin's back as he returned it in kind. 'Old friend. It is good to see you!' He swept away Oin's bow with a brush of his hand, clasping his forearm and leaning in to tap their brows together before turning to face the youngest dwarf of the trio. 

At first glance, Thorin might not have recognised him, but on closer inspection it was clear who had accompanied Balin and Oin to the Shire. Ori had grown, his slender form filling out and gaining strength. His fingers still carried ink stains like battle-scars, and his smile remained as guileless as ever. He clasped Thorin's forearm with a hint of embarrassment; some of his shyness lingered, even if he wore the decades since their last meeting well.

'Come in! Come in!' Bilbo urged from where he stood holding the gate open. 'Let's get you some tea. Or I've got some ale in the pantry.'

'Ah, that sounds like a fine thing, laddie. The roads are dusty this time of year.' Balin spread his hands to indicate his robes, fine cloth marked with many miles of travel. Ori and Oin were no better, both apologising for the state of their boots as they ducked into the comfortable shade of Bag End, exclaiming at the space that Bilbo and Thorin had made theirs over the years. 

Though the smial remained much as it had been upon their first visit, the dwarven markings carved on the door lintels caused a great deal of admiration. They had been Thorin’s touch upon the place, a way to mark his heritage upon their home. 

'Can I sketch these?' Ori asked, brown eyes wide as he tucked a tumbling braid behind his ear. 'I know there are many like it in mountain halls, but you rarely get to see them so close. Normally they’re far above our heads, half lost to shadow, but these…'

'Be my guest.' Thorin gestured to the kitchen table, which had plenty of light at that time of day and offered Ori an excellent view. 'Sit, all of you. Take the weight off those weary boots. When did you leave Erebor? Fili mentioned nothing in his letters.’

'Aye, I asked him not to,' Balin confessed, his smile broadening as he reached into a satchel and pulled something free, handing it to Thorin. The canvas was loosely rolled and wrapped in an oilskin. Thorin eased it open, regarding the small portrait of his sister-sons and their mother. 'They'd have come themselves if they could.'

'In a heartbeat,' Oin added, clapping his hands appreciatively as Bilbo brought out tankards of ale and plates laden with cold meats. Fresh-baked bread, slathered in butter, joined the makeshift meal, and the dwarves fell upon it with their usual enthusiasm. 'It took some convincing to get the others to stay. The kingdom does well –'

'Better than "well",' Ori corrected. 'It thrives, as I'm sure you know from the letters. I'd never have believed it could be so, not knowing what it once was.'

Thorin nodded, pride pressing its heat beneath his skin. 'Fili makes a fine king, and this picture...' He smiled, tilting it so Bilbo could see. The hobbit's eyes sparkled. It was one thing to read their letters, to sense their characters gleaming like the brightest of diamonds, but it was another to see the strength of body and character they had both gathered around themselves over the years. 'He looks like my brother, Frerin. He always did, to some extent, but now...' Thorin shook his head, caught unawares by the resemblance. 'He even styles his beard the same way.'

'And Kili looks like you.' Bilbo pointed to the dark-haired dwarf, chin held high and proud, his beard shorter than his brother’s but thick and resplendent. The artist had caught the sparkle of mischief in his gaze, one that not even the battle and all the years since could take from him. 'And Dis looks like she might explode with pride.'

'And with good reason,' Balin murmured. 'Her boys? They shine.'

'They are both exactly what Erebor needed.' Thorin sighed, wondering at the hints of sadness that edged his mood. Not because he was not in their place, a crown upon his brow, but because he was not with them to witness their triumph first hand. He set the portrait down with great care, making sure it could not be damaged by crumbs or spills. 'Tell me everything.'

His friends obliged him with gusto, speaking of changes great and small as Bilbo sat at Thorin's side, clasping his hand tight beneath the table. They learned how Erebor's new mines were planned with precision, balancing the needs of the people with the burden the land could bear. Kili had taken charge of Erebor's agricultural efforts. With the help of Tauriel, now his wife, he had turned much of the sparse land around the mountain into hearty pasture. A few hardier crops grew, and the mountain’s wealth flourished with them. Fili focussed on the politics, strengthening alliances with men and elves alike, as well as those inhabiting the nearby dwarven halls.

'He knows that, just because Erebor stands alone, doesn't mean it must. There's value in friends.'

'And the kingdom has plenty of those. The Men are our staunchest allies, but there is little we cannot ask of Greenwood or the Iron Hills.'

'Thranduil names himself a friend?' Thorin asked. He had noted how sparse Fili's letters were on details of the elves who lived on their borders. He had assumed, over the years, that they had retreated into the trees, leaving Tauriel as the lone and much-loved representative of their race. 

It seemed he could not have been more wrong. Oin regaled them with stories of frequent visits and banquets that went on for days. Ori explained the popularity of the huge markets that filled the streets of Dale to the brim throughout the summer, bringing folk from miles around to trade their wares, including the elves.

It did Thorin good to see his friends so obviously delighted. They were proud of the place they had come to call home, and prouder still of the people who inhabited it: diverse and unique, but united in their love of the land.

'And without the two of you, we'd have none of it,' Balin added, folding a slice of ham and popping it into his mouth. 'Without your quest, laddie, we'd still be in the Blue Mountains.'

'And without Bilbo we would never have found our way off that blasted doorstep.' Oin toasted them both with his ale, chuckling joyfully. 'Aye, the kingdom thanks its current king, but it does not forget those to whom it owes its existence.'

'Nor what it cost them.' Balin reached for his drink, his eyes sparkling over the rim of his flagon. 'Though it seems that price is long in the past. You look happy, Thorin. The Shire has been good to you.'

'I think it's Bilbo who has been good to him,' Ori said with a quiet chuckle. 'We always talk of Erebor in letters, but never the Shire!'

'Not much happens here, which is the way hobbits like it!' Bilbo pointed out with a grin. 'Gandalf dragging me off on an adventure is still the main source of gossip, if you'd believe it.'

'That and the dwarf you bought home with you,' Thorin reminded him. Those few hobbits who had been displeased with his presence had soon learned the error of their ways. The rest were friendly, and over the years had grown far less awestruck.

'Oh, and the gold. Rumour has it, we've got tons of the stuff, buried in the cellars.'

'And in the woods,' Thorin added with a laugh. 'And down by the river...'

'Honestly, with all the coin we apparently have, it's amazing people aren't falling over it in the marketplace!' Bilbo's mirth softened, replaced with a fond smile that was all for Thorin. 'I thought he'd find it boring, here,' he confessed to Ori, who gave him a doubtful look. 'There's not much politics, absolutely no battles and definitely no dragons.'

'Instead, a little peace turned out to be just what I needed.'

'Aye, laddie, and you earned it.' An edge of sadness touched Balin's smile. 'We miss you. All of us, and you too, Master Baggins, but it brings us comfort knowing you're both here, living so well.'

'Is that why you visited?' Bilbo asked, grinning as he gathered tankards to refill them. 'To check how we were doing?'

'One of the reasons,' Balin promised with a laugh. 'Letters are one thing, but to see you both in the flesh...' He sighed, patting his chest in contentment. 'It does this old heart good.'

'Old,' Oin scoffed, ducking his head in appreciation as Bilbo passed him more ale. 'Not so old you can't go traipsing all across Middle-earth, your head full of dreams.'

'Dreams you started,' Balin pointed out.

Thorin prodded Balin's shin with his boot, his face falling serious. 'Start talking, old friend. You've been in Ered Luin.' At Balin's expression of surprise, he jerked his head towards Ori, and in particular, the notebook on which he sketched with such vigour. 'That paper's Piri's work. I'd recognise it anywhere. Fine stuff, and only sold in the Blue Mountains. What reason do you have to be in this part of the world? And don’t try to tell me you were merely visiting us. I’ll not believe it.'

Balin regarded him for a long, still moment, his shrewd expression tinged with worry before he nodded in acknowledgement. 'Aye, you're right. Erebor's grown strong. The pride of our kind, but Fili needs me no longer. He's a fine king: confident and wise. My mind, my heart has turned elsewhere. To _Khazad-dûm_.'

Thorin's breath hissed between his teeth as his lunch turned greasy in his belly. 'Balin...' he began, cut off by the slice of Balin's hand through the air.

'For more than three years now, Oin's been reading the same thing in the omens. A fading in the dark. An ending to the shadow.'

'That could be anything.' Thorin shook his head, alarm running up and down his spine in tiny shivers, as if a storm gathered. 'Or nothing at all!' He held up his hands, palm outward, as Oin squawked in protest. 'Then tell me, what makes you think of _Khazad-dûm_? Why there, of all places?'

'Depths.' Oin shrugged, as if it were obvious. Thorin had no personal knowledge of omens and foresight. He had followed a prophecy or two in his time, when they added power to his own desires, but this? This way lay madness. 'I cannot explain it more than that. A blackness that feels like home, without cruelty or fear. A darkness waiting to be lit once more.'

'Um...' Bilbo cleared his throat, an apologetic smile flickering over his lips. 'Would someone mind explaining? What is _Khazad-dûm_?'

'A place.' Thorin took a deep breath, gripping his tankard tight. 'To many dwarves, it is _the_ place. The first delving. The first hall of our race. You may know it as Moria.' 

‘As in, the Battle of Azanulbizar?’ 

Bilbo's confusion lingered, and part of Thorin was grateful that his hobbit, his love, knew so little of what many dwarves believed to be the greatest tragedy of their history. 'Yes. Durin the Deathless founded _Khazad-dûm_ in the first age, and for more years than we care to count, it prospered.'

'Ages passed.' Balin shook his head. 'It is the longest dwarven-kind has occupied a hall. The richest, too, by all accounts, but-'

'But greed was its downfall.' Thorin lifted his chin, daring Balin to argue. 'As is so often the case, when it comes to my kind. More than a thousand years ago, the dwarves chased the veins of mithril down into the heart of the land. They dug too deep, and something that was better left sleeping arose.'

'Durin's Bane.' Ori's hushed voice carried a hint of a tremor. 'We're not sure what it was. We only have stories. Histories. A beast of shadow and flame, or so it is written. It killed King Durin the Sixth, and his son, Nain, not long after.'

'The dwarves fled.' Oin frowned into his tankard, his earlier smiles gone. 'And who can blame them? Some things leave nothing living in their path.'

'Was it a dragon?' Bilbo asked. 'Like Smaug?'

'It came out of the ground. That's not what dragons do.' Ori reached into his satchel, pulling out books, the pages of which lay crammed with Khuzdul. 'We have no pictures, nothing to go on at all, but I don't think it can be.'

'But it fades.' Balin shook his head, casting off the melancholy that had settled over the occupants of Bag End. 'It fades, Thorin. The darkness recedes! If the beast lies dead, or has fled the halls entirely... Imagine it, laddie! The first land of our people in dwarven hands once more.'

'And if it hasn't?' Thorin shook his head, unable to dismiss the deep unease that took root in the pit of his stomach. 'If it is fading, but has yet to lose its strength? What then? You would be walking into its clutches.' He pressed a fingertip to the table, desperate to emphasise his point. 'Even if it is gone, _Khazad-dûm_  
has been empty for a thousand years. Who knows what other creatures have moved into the deeps? Things that love the dark, and will do all they can to destroy the light you bring?'

A kind expression softened the lines of Balin's face, as if he had heard these protests before. 'Foolhardy, you could call it. Not unlike a quest to rescue a kingdom from a dragon.' A snowy eyebrow lifted as he leaned forward, clasping Thorin's hand in gnarled fingers. 'I know the risks, Thorin, and so does every dwarf who follows me, but I cannot let this pass me by. How long have the stories been told, from throne to fireside, about the palaces we left behind? The relics? The culture? The roots of our people were there, and we were forced to abandon it all.'

'Relics can be replaced,' Thorin pointed out, shaking his head as Balin clucked in disapproval. 'You know what I mean. They are things, Balin. Important things, perhaps, but things all the same. A dwarf lost can never be regained.'

'You fear I will find my tomb there.' Balin sighed, bowing his head in acknowledgement. 'I fear the same, but 'tis no more certain than when I followed you into that damned mountain. No death awaited me there: only triumph. You have hared off on more dangerous quests with lesser portents to support you.'

'There's the histories, too,' Ori added, his melodic voice breathless at the prospect. 'The libraries in _Khazad-dûm_ are renowned. Even Lord Thranduil has heard of them. Books and scrolls filling an enormous cavern, brought together from every clan. They had special mechanisms to keep the air dry. They might have survived!' 

A fervent light glowed in those brown eyes and flushed Ori's narrow face. His soft red beard blazed in the shaft of sun pouring in through the window, and Thorin was caught between the knowledge of how much the young dwarf had grown, and how his youth still lingered, impetuous and certain.

He looked to Oin, knowing he would find no help from that quarter. The healer only shrugged, his old shoulders lopsided as he shook his head. 'My divinations, lad. That's what started all this. I'm here to see it finished, whichever way the world takes us.'

'Even if that is back to Mahal's halls?'

'Even then.'

Thorin sighed, knowing that he could not talk them out of it. For the first time, he understood the dwarven council's frustrations when they had refused to support his quest for Erebor. He had always thought them indifferent and callous, but now he suspected they had instead struggled with the same fear that had taken root in his belly. Not only for the dwarves who marched so boldly – blindly – into a beast's domain, but of what might happen should whatever lay in Moria break free. 

At least with Smaug, they had known what they faced. Even then, the mighty creature had killed more than the dwarves. It had laid waste to Dale on its arrival and Laketown upon its demise. Thorin had not seen it then, that it was not just the lives of himself and his Company that he risked. Now, he thought of the cities near the mountains, and what might become of them if Durin's Bane was not as weak as Balin hoped.

'You will do this, no matter what I say?

Balin let out a breath, and Thorin watched the tension flee his old friend's frame. He had expected a harder fight – forewarned and forearmed by his knowledge of Thorin's stubbornness, no doubt – but this time in the Shire had taught him to choose his battles, and Thorin knew a hopeless cause when he saw it. 

'Aye, laddie. It's already begun. We brought some with us from Erebor, three-score, and as many again are on their way from Ered Luin. We're due to meet them on the border of the West Farthing in a couple of days before marching on.'

The silence that settled over Bag End’s kitchen lay dense around them, weighing heavy on Thorin’s shoulders and drowning out his joy. It terrified him, the thought of his friends – dwarves who had shared despair and triumph at his side – going to face whatever skulked in the depths of Moria. So much so that he could not find a single word to utter.

'Right.' Bilbo took a deep breath, drawing a line under the conversation and switching the topic from the uncertain future to the present with ease. 'You've got time to take some rest. Get some food in those bellies of yours and decent sleep in comfortable beds.'

'Here?' Ori said, his face alight with hope. 'We were going to make do with an inn.'

'Nonsense.' Bilbo got to his feet, his movements brisk. 'We've rooms enough for all of you, and food aplenty too. Especially if you come with me to the market tomorrow to stock up. Take the weight off those weary feet for a day or two. I'll go get your beds ready.'

'Do you need help, laddie?' Balin asked, already half-rising from his seat.

'I'll shout if I do,' Bilbo promised, his smile bright and grateful. 'Ale's in the pantry. Help yourselves.'

Thorin raised an eyebrow, saying nothing as his husband swept off. He had not lived with Bilbo for so many years without learning a thing or two. Neither he nor his hobbit could change Balin's mind, but he suspected Bilbo had not washed his hands of the matter of _Khazad-dûm_. 

He had something up his sleeve. 

The afternoon passed in a flurry of good food, good drink and good cheer. The fog of fear that surrounded Balin's quest had lifted, chased away by memories of better times, adventures made rich in detail and light on danger by the fondness of recollection. 

Something in the Shire's air, thick with summer sunshine, seemed to put everyone at their ease. Bilbo expertly nudged the conversation in safe directions when it threatened to veer off course, and by the time the moon hung, fat and full, in the sky, Thorin had almost forgotten about Balin's quest.

Almost.

'You're worried,' Bilbo murmured as they climbed into the bed they shared, warm, bare bodies slotting together in a comfortable embrace. 'Every time you've remembered why Balin's here, I've seen the frown growing on your brow. Do you really think it's so dangerous? More so than facing Smaug?'

'Yes.' Thorin sighed, burying his nose in Bilbo's hair and inhaling the familiar scent of soap and hobbit that never failed to soothe his nerves. 'We knew what awaited us in Erebor, but Durin's Bane? That is something different. Something…' He trailed off, not knowing how to explain to Bilbo a creature that was little more than a fairy-tale. 

Erebor had been real: a living, breathing memory etched in flame and soot across his mind, but _Khazad-dûm_ fell centuries before his birth. It was a legend, untouched, and the monster that lurked within only grew more horrific in its mystery. 'It slaughtered many without mercy. It did not speak, only roared: a fury that shook the bowels of the earth itself. It was shadow given life. Darkness taking form. Smaug, at least, could be felled with the right arrow, but Durin's Bane? I am not even certain it can be killed.'

Bilbo huffed out a breath, the air ghosting over Thorin's collarbones as he tightened his embrace. 'Balin won't change his mind. You know that?'

'I know.'

'He's set on it, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know what he risks, going there. He's not taken leave of his senses, despite what this quest might suggest.' Bilbo looked up at Thorin, his hazel eyes bright. 'Don't mention it again. Any of it. Don't let where he's going and what he's doing overshadow this scant time we have.'

Bilbo did not need to add, "They might be the last days you ever share with him." It hung in the air, a grim possibility. It was hard to shake the feeling that the effort to reclaim the oldest and greatest dwarven hall was doomed to failure. Thorin wished he could see it differently, could detect the same slivers of hope that had carried him halfway across Middle-earth to the kingdom he had once called home, but he could not. Only darkness lay in Moria, and he did not think Balin would be able to bring it back into the light.

'I should stop him,' he murmured. 'If I were king, I could.'

'Could you?' Bilbo made no effort to hide his doubt. 'Could you really stop your friend from following his dream, even if you knew it would only end in a nightmare?'

Thorin sighed. Sometimes, he wished his hobbit were not quite so wise. In truth, if he were Balin's liege, he would still face the same problem. He would still stand tall between the fear of what lay within the Pit, and the knowledge that his friendship would be forever changed if he forbade the effort. 'What would you have me do?'

'I think you've done all you can, my love.' Bilbo pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder, blessing the weathered skin with the warmth of his lips. 'Be his friend. Show him how happy you are and how good it is to see him.'

'And when he leaves?' Thorin asked, his mouth twisting in a grimace as his fear sharpened into grief-edged dread.

'Let him go.'

Bilbo's words lingered with him long after Bilbo had fallen asleep. If his hobbit had any bright ideas, he chose not to share them. Instead, he acted as if it were out of their hands. In truth, Thorin supposed it was. He had given up that life when he renounced his throne to his sister-sons. He had made his choice when, wounded and weary, he had ridden back to the Shire at Bilbo's side. Now, it seemed, he could do little but bear witness to his friends' mistakes.

Before that, though, in the brief interlude before their departure, he had time to make some new memories: precious treasures to last him and Bilbo both through the winter of their years. It was not much consolation, but Bilbo was right. They could not control what Balin did next. They could only influence the moment, and make the very most of it.

And so it was that Thorin found himself in the marketplace, laughing at Ori's delight. Hobbits were discerning creatures, and though their skill lay in their gardens, they were keen appreciators of a number of crafts. Many merchants travelled into the Shire to sell their wares. 

Balin beamed over jewels and trinkets from dwarven halls, while Oin filled his satchel with remedies that had made their way from far-off Rivendell. Ori gasped in pleasure over inks in a myriad of hues, while Thorin and Bilbo stocked the pantry with the best meats and cheeses, vegetables and ales. 

An evening in the Green Dragon, brimming with song and boisterous laughter left his heart light and his ears ringing. Hobbits, he well knew, could put the loudest dwarven feasts to shame with their parties, and he laughed to see the surprise and delight of his friends.

It felt good, he realised, to show them the peaceful land he had made his home, where the most dramatic thing to happen all year had been the theft of someone's apple pie right from their windowsill. It may be boring to some, but even the most battle-hardened dwarf could appreciate tranquillity when they found it. 

By the time the sun rose on the day of Balin, Ori and Oin's departure, they were all well-fed and rested, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed: keen to be off on their adventure. News had reached them, whispers on the wind, of a friendly dwarven army gathered on the borders of the Shire-lands. Balin scoffed at that, claiming a hundred dwarves did not an army make, but he smiled all the same, pleased to know that so many had answered his call. Reclaiming _Khazad-dûm_ was not his dream alone. Not any longer.

'You have tried not to speak of it,' Balin murmured, cornering Thorin in the front hall. 'I've known you all your life, Thorin. I know when you are avoiding something.'

'And you know my mind on this.' Thorin reached out, squeezing his old friend's forearm, trying to press his affection through cloth and leather to the body beneath. 'My thoughts have not changed any more than yours.'

Balin sighed. 'I know not if you wish to hear it, but I must give you my thanks. This – the life you have made for yourself with Bilbo – it has freed me to take this path. If you were king still, I would have remained all my days in Erebor.'

'Safe,' Thorin pointed out, his shoulders slumping as he acknowledged Balin's point. 'Unfulfilled. I did not know this was a dream you carried.'

'I heard stories of _Khazad-dûm_ on my Grandfather's knee, and he from his Grandfather, who survived its fall. We were the ones who lost it, Thorin, the crowning glory of the dwarven halls. It should be I who reclaims it.' His grin started small, but soon spread, fuelled by the bright burn of a hope that Thorin could not share. 'Now, at last, I have my chance.'

'Should it not come to pass, old friend, it would be through no fault of your own.' Thorin lifted his chin, speaking once more as if he were King Under the Mountain, rather than Thorin of the Shire. 'It is a brave thing you do, and it will not be forgotten. You did not come here for my blessing.' He inclined his head in acknowledgement. 'Yet you have it. I wish you all fair fortune, my friends.'

Balin's eyes sparkled, bright with unshed tears as he stepped forward, smacking Thorin's brow with his own: the force expressed pride and gratitude, happiness and sorrow. They both knew that this could be their final parting, and Thorin's heart ached with the notion that he may never set eyes on his friends again. It had been one thing to know they were safe and comfortable within the Lonely Mountain, but now?

'We'll visit.' Bilbo folded his arms, raising his eyebrows when Balin looked his way. 'We're young enough to make the journey if you are. As soon as it's safe, send a raven.'

'You'll be welcomed like heroes!' Ori promised with a laugh, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder as he waved his farewells, his gaze fond. 'Thank you for everything. The food, the ale, and the company.' The bow he sketched made Bilbo blush, and Thorin shook his head, clapping the young dwarf on the back.

'Farewell, Ori. I hope the histories you find are everything you could hope for. Take care of these two old fools, won't you?'

'Hah, we'll be the ones looking after him!' Oin stepped out of the door, leading the way to the front gate with his shambling stride and leaving the others to follow, all sharing promises of frequent letters and invitations that rang hollow in Thorin's ears. It was not that he did not trust his friends' good intentions, merely that he feared they would never get the opportunity to fulfil their promises.

The gate shut behind them, the latch clattering closed as they waved them off, he and Bilbo both leaning out to watch them saunter off down the lane.

It was, Thorin supposed, a fine way to remember them: happy and excited for the path that lay ahead. Still, dread gnawed at him, troubling his mind and clouding his brow until Bilbo touched his elbow.

He turned to his hobbit, seeing the same fear that plagued him deepening the lines on that much-loved face. Except where Thorin felt powerless, he sensed a determination in Bilbo's features. Hope, where Thorin himself had little to spare.

'I wrote to Gandalf.' Bilbo ducked his head before meeting Thorin's gaze. 'Used one of the ravens. I'm sure it will find him. I feel like a faunt telling the teacher about his misbehaving classmates, but...' He shrugged. 'You seem so certain it will end in failure.'

'I wish I could believe otherwise.' He looked towards the lane, empty now, his friends already nothing but a memory. 'Do you think the wizard will intercede?'

'Interfere, more like, unless he has more important things to attend to. It's all we can do.' Bilbo took Thorin's hands in his, his shaking fingers brushing over the back of Thorin's knuckles. When he spoke again, he sounded as if the effort cost him more than he could afford, and his trembling words ghosted through the air. 'You – you don't want to go with them?'

Thorin's heart twisted in his chest. Once, when he was a younger dwarf, he would have leapt at the chance to be part of Balin's venture. He would have ignored the danger, too brash and confident to heed it. Reclaiming Erebor had robbed him of that. It had shown him glory's lie, and pulled back the veil on the ever-present spectre of death. 

He had come within a hair's breadth of losing his mind to the madness and his life to the battle. Worse, he had not suffered alone. Everyone he cared for had come to harm, either by his own hand or as a consequence of his choices. Yes, they had triumphed in the end, but victory came at a crippling cost.

The resurrection of _Khazad-dûm_ would be no different.

'No.' He lifted Bilbo's hand to his lips, pressing a confident kiss to his fingers before pulling him into his embrace. This, what he had here in the Shire, was all that he needed from life. Gone was the thirst for glory. He found his triumphs in the smaller things, like the curve of Bilbo's soft smile and the joy that glowed in those eyes. He would gladly give up all the treasures of Moria in exchange for the life he had built with his hobbit. 

'This is Balin's dream. Balin's quest, and it will decide his fate. My place is not at his side.' He smiled down at Bilbo, bending his head so that their brows touched: a meeting of like minds and hearts – a moment of serenity in each other's company that, if he had his way, would last all the days that he had left to give.

'My place is here.'

**Author's Note:**

>  **Want to support me or prompt me with a fic idea?**[ Visit this page to find out how.](http://the-pen-pot.tumblr.com/SupportMe)  
>  **Fanfic** : [BBC Sherlock | ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/works)[Fullmetal Alchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction_FMA/works) | [The Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kingmaker/works)  
>  **Social** : [Tumblr](http://the-pen-pot.tumblr.com) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/BD_Strike) | [ Webpage](https://bdstrike.co.uk)


End file.
